What We Gain From What We Lost
by HarTay2022
Summary: 'How do you look a man, or Vulcan, in the eye whose mother you could have saved, but failed to? How do you apologize for something like that? You can't, you just can't. No matter what he did, she was not coming back. Spock would never forgive him; he didn't deserve to be forgiven, he couldn't even forgive himself.' NO SLASH!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! So there are a lot of firsts in this one, first Star Trek story, first sickfic, and first multi chapter story! **

**I am a novice about Star Trek as I have only seen the 2009 and 2013 movies late last year. Characters might end up a little OOC, but we'll see; so please bear with me and let me know how to improve. **

**I love reviews and PMs! Please, they motivate me and make me a better writer!**

**I don't own anything. Enjoy!**

* * *

It was a funny thing, time was. It could be fast or slow, sometimes it was racing and sometimes it was standing still; and the really funny thing was it never seemed to be the same for everyone. Some people would say that it just flew by, while others would say that it couldn't go by fast enough.

It had been two weeks since the U.S.S _Enterprise _had been repaired and Jim Kirk had been made its Captain. Two weeks since they began their mission to seek out new places and boldly go where no ship had gone before.

But for Pavel A. Chekov, the past two weeks had been the fastest and slowest of his short life. Sometimes it felt like it was just yesterday that the _Enterprise _had its battle with Nero, just yesterday that Vulcan was swallowed out of existence, just yesterday that Amanda Grayson slipped from his fingers. Yet still, other times, he felt as if those events were years ago. He would often become lost in thought over them, only to remember that they had happened not too long ago.

Two weeks was all it had been since he could have prevented one of those events from ever happening. To say the least, these last two weeks have been nightmares for him.

Literally.

Night after night he was startled awake by these nightmares that turned his stomach. Again and again he was forced to witness Amanda fall to her death, to see that little red dot fall faster and faster until it was no more, to see Spock's placid face shatter as he tried to strangle Jim for saying he never loved her. Sometimes in his dreams, he was the one that Spock was strangling, and in reality, he felt like he deserved it.

This had been one of those dreams.

Usually having one like that caused him to wake up gasping as if it really happened. But this time he shot straight up in bed, was welcomed with a shot of pain to his head and was hit by a long and painful coughing fit. He hacked for at least a minute and a half before he bowed his head forward and took deep breaths. That's when he realized he could not breathe through his nose properly and was forced to breathe through his mouth, which left his throat dry and scratchy.

After a moment to calm himself, he swallowed experimentally and discovered that his throat was indeed quite sore. He reached a hand up to tenderly rub his throat mostly just as an impulse as he knew there would be no relief in the action. That same hand traveled up to his forehead to massage away the ache that decided to settle there. The pain was not as intense as it was the minute he awoke, but it was there just the same.

With as much force as his aching body could muster, he kicked the sheet and blanket away and swung his legs over the side of the bed into a sitting position. Just that small movement alone left him feeling drained of all energy. Resting his elbows on his knees, he sighed which spawned another cough attack that left him out of breath for a moment.

Boy did he not feel good. At all.

He wondered how these symptoms could have come up so fast; it most likely had to do with him not sleeping properly for so long that made his body weak and prone to illnesses. But he didn't care how or where he got it; all he cared about was crawling back under the covers to sleep this all away.

Then it dawned on him, what time was it? He reached over and snatched his PADD from his bedside table; bringing it to life his eyes widened and his jaw hung open as he realized that he was to be on the Bridge in thirty minutes.

'_How could I have slept so long?_' he thought.

His body must have been very worn out to have let him rest that long. With his reoccurring nightmares, usually he would startle awake in the early hours of the morning and not be able to go back to sleep.

He all but tossed his PADD back onto the table before leaping to his feet; the motion causing a jolt of pain to strike his head and nearly sent him dropping back down to where he just sat. Wincing, he clasped both sides of his head to will the pain away. '_Bad move._' He thought to himself. After a moment or two the pain formed back to the dull ache it had been before. He decided right then and there that no swift or sudden motions were to be made. At least until this headache was gone.

* * *

After a quick sonic shower, he dressed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, pulled on his boots and made a mad dash through the corridors; he had not planned on doing the last bit quite as fast as he did, his head was pounding; but the whole task of just getting ready was delayed every time he nearly hacked up a lung making it take twice as long as it should have.

But here he was in the turbo lift heading towards the Bridge deck. He was thankful that he was alone at the moment to catch his breath, and also he wanted as few people as possible to see him in this pathetic state. Before he left he had a good look at himself in the mirror and groaned at what he had seen. His face was pale and the only shade of color was the pink that was forming on his cheeks. He could already tell that he had a fever before seeing his reflection, because every now and again, a chill ran through his body causing him to shudder slightly.

At first, he failed to notice the dark circles that had formed under his eyes, they were only made more noticeable now because of his pale skin. He had been getting used to seeing them after days of restless sleep. Nobody should be used to seeing dark shadows under their eyes, and he knew that, but nothing could be done. As it was with the dreams of Spock with his hand around his neck, young Chekov felt as if he deserved those dark circles and those sleepless nights. How many sleepless nights had Spock, and even his father, Sarek, had because of him? He had caused them so much pain, even if they did not show it, he knew he did. The circles, the nightmares and now even this illness was the least he felt he deserved for that unforgettable and unforgivable mistake; a mistake that cost Spock his one and only mother.

Just before reaching his destination, he felt a tickle building in his nose and positioned his hands for what was to come next; two big sneezes escaped into his cupped hands followed by another coughing fit. He took a tissue from his pocket, (he had grabbed a handful of them before he left, just in case.) and blew his nose. He had just enough time to store the used tissue in his opposite pocket and straighten out his shirt again before the turbo lift door slid open and the Bridge and all of its crew, minus one Captain Kirk, appeared in front of him.

He sighed inwardly with relief upon realizing that he had made it before the Captain, since it was his job to announce his arrival.

As calmly, but as quickly as he could he made his way to his chair near the front of the bridge.

When he sat down he closed his eyes and allowed himself a brief moment to relish in the small accomplishment in making it there in the first place. When he opened his eyes again, he turned to his left expecting to see the friendly face of Sulu, but he jumped in surprise ever so slightly as he took in the face of someone else.

'_Oh, that's right_.' He remembered.

Hikaru Sulu had been called back to earth a few days ago on account of his sister was having her first child. The Sulu kin was very family oriented, and Hikaru often mentioned being very close to his sister growing up, so understandably, he would want to be there. He had planned to only take a few days, but Jim had insisted he take a whole week due to everything that had happened recently.

The other man turned and greeted him with a kind smile. Chekov recognized him just from in passing as Lieutenant Peter Marque, he was a year or so older than the Captain, friendly, but quiet if not somewhat shy like himself. So in return, Chekov offered a smile as genuine as he could with the way he was feeling, before Peter turned back to his controls.

At that moment, Chekov turned at the sound of the turbo lift doors opening to see their proud Captain step onto the deck.

That was his cue.

"Keptin-" That was the first time that he heard his voice, it was raspy and just didn't sound right. He cleared his throat quickly hoping no one noticed.

"Keptin on ze Bridge."

"Ya alright there, Mister Chekov?"

'_Oh no._' He though. Turning again to see Jim settle down in his chair with a questioning yet concerned expression. He swallowed nervously and held back a wince.

"Aye, Sir, it waz just a tickle." He said with what he hoped was a convincing smile.

Jim studied him for another second. "Alright then. Ready to take us somewhere Mister Marque?"

"Yes, Sir."

With that, Chekov turned to face forward once again. He felt his face burn, not with fever, but with embarrassment. He could not let anyone know he was unwell, they would send him back to his quarters where he felt useless and lazy. He had a job, a responsibility to up hold; he was not going to let a little sore throat and headache get in his way. People counted on him to be there, and even though they never had gotten the chance to meet, Amanda Grayson had counted on him to save her. Everyone had. He was in control of that screen, he was the one in charge to save them _all_, and he had failed. He had let everyone down, the crew, Spock and even himself. Well, not ever again, when he was going to be counted on, he would be there; no matter how sick and tired he was he was not going to let anyone down ever again.

* * *

By the time mid-afternoon rolled around, Chekov was really feeling the weight of his illness. If he had felt bad before, that was nothing compared to now; and the more his symptoms increased, the harder it became to hide them.

The exhaustion was getting the best of him, he felt weak, his arms grew heavy and he wasn't sure how much longer he could lift them. The aches had spread throughout his whole body, but he continued to sit ram-rod straight even though he longed to just place his entire weight against the back of his chair. At times he wasn't sure if his fever was going up or down, one minute he was casually trying to wipe the sweat from his brow, and the next he was trying to conceal the shivers that ran through his body. But the cough was the worst of all. He would try to muffle the sound in the crook of his arm, but they just kept coming and in longer strands. Sometimes he just tried to hold them back and not let them escape past his lips, but that was difficult and uncomfortable, and on occasion he had to excuse himself to the restroom just to be alone so no one would hear his chesty cough. They racked his body and left him out of breath for several seconds, they became so deep and hard that the muscles in his sides contracted painfully causing him to grimace and wrap his arms around his waist in an attempt to keep them still.

To sum it all up, he was miserable; absolutely miserable.

He walked out from his latest trip to the restroom and slowly began heading towards the Mess Hall. Upon reaching his destination, the automatic doors whooshed open granting him excess to the inside. There were quite a few people, mostly red shirts, sitting, eating and chatting away contently.

Chekov scanned the scene before him. He wasn't really that hungry for lunch, not that his stomach was upset, but mostly it was because of his throat. All of the coughing made his throat raw and sore, making swallowing a difficult and painful task; if he couldn't even swallow his own saliva, how was he going to swallow food? His throat just hurt too much. Besides, he was extremely tired, and figured that it would be a better and more beneficial idea to spend his break shift sleeping, even if it was only for a couple hours, it was bound to be better than nothing.

He made up his mind to do just that, and began walking away from the Mess Hall. But little did he know that someone had seen his every move and was now frowning in concern.

"Not very hungry today, Chekov?"

He stopped and turned to face the owner of the voice. The one and only Captain Kirk.

"Ah…no not veally, Sir."

Jim came closer and put a gentle hand on Chekov's shoulder.

"I'm not going to ask if you're okay, because clearly you're not." He said looking the young Ensign up and down. When he did not say anything in return, Jim placed a hand on his forehead.

Chekov knew that was the end of it, he had been caught; his attempts to mask his illness had failed. He should have known better then to try and hide anything from James T. Kirk, in the back of his mind, he knew that he would be found out; it had just been a matter of when and where.

"Man, you're burning up!" Jim exclaimed.

Chekov could only look down, away from Jim's worried eyes. He had not meant to lie to anyone, especially to the Captain that he looked up to so much. He had just wanted to carry out his duties and perform as any member aboard the _Enterprise_ would.

He felt a light squeeze on his shoulder and look up again at the Captain's face, that know wore a soft smile that showed that he was not upset at him, that reassurance lifted Chekov's spirit a bit before a coughing attack took over. He turned away from Jim and coughed into his fist.

"Ready to go to Sickbay?" He asked as he placed his hand back on the young man's shoulder.

Chekov nodded as the coughing subsided.

Somehow admitting that he was sick made him feel even more tried and unwell; maybe it was because he didn't have to fight it anymore, giving into his battle was a relief to his weak body that he had pushed so hard. He could just be sick now; he did not have to fool himself or anyone else anymore, know he could just focus on getting better.

Jim patted his shoulder, "Come on, I'll take you."

And with that, the two young men walked slowly towards Sickbay.

* * *

"JIM! For the last time, unless you are sick or hurt get outta _my_ Sickbay! I don't need you messing around with anything _again_."

That had been what they were greeted with upon entering through the sliding doors. It seemed to Chekov that Dr. McCoy was always in a bad mood, some said maybe it was his anxiety about being in anything that flew while others said it was his frustration over putting up with Jim Kirk all the time. But he guessed it was probably an even amount of both.

"I'm not here to play with all of your shinny toys, Bones. Although, that thing looks pretty cool-" He said pointing at some type of new device that not even Chekov recognized.

"Don't touch it!"

Jim retracted his finger as if the machine was going to bite him, and looked up at McCoy again.

"Umm, I'm really here because I brought Chekov."

The doctor looked over at Chekov for the first time since he had been there and softened his face a bit. "I apologize Ensign, with that one around I have to keep both eyes on him, you never know what he'll do ne-JIM! PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!"

Chekov looked over to see that the Captain did, in fact, pick up the device McCoy had told him not to touch. With both their set of eyes on him, he put the gadget down and slowly backed away with his hands in the air as if to surrender. The display made Chekov smile in spite of himself.

"Ahhh, Jim you drive me…oh forget it! Go have a seat on the bed, kid."

He walked over to the indicated bio-bed and lifted himself onto it. He desperately wished that his feet, or at least the tips of his boots, would touch the floor beneath him. He hated being the youngest and one of the shortest crew members and longed for a growth-spurt to occur.

McCoy soon approached with a PADD and tricorder in hand with Jim not far behind.

"Yeah kid, you really don't look so good." He said placing the PADD down.

He began to wave the tricorder beside Chekov's young face.

"You wanna tell me about your symptoms?"

"I av ze headache, chillz, werry sore throat, aches and… andabadcough-" He had to say the last part rather quickly due to a big sneeze that irritated his nose.

"Bless you." Said Jim as he handed him a tissue from the box at his side. Chekov was truly grateful, since the ones that he had stuffed in his pocket that morning had long since been used.

He took it and blew his nose gently. "Sank you, Keptin."

"No problem."

"Hmmm…" McCoy hummed, looking at the readings on the tricorder. "You've got quite a fever brewing too." He put down the tricorder and took out a pen light from his pocket.

He did always find the old technology useful and very helpful. He clicked it on.

He crouched down slightly and put a hand on Chekov's head. "Let me see your throat, say 'ahhh.'"

Chekov did as he was told, but asking his dry, scratchy throat to hold the odd sound proved to be too much and a heavy coughing fit shook his whole body.

"Pavel!" Jim exclaimed, in alarm at how hard the seventeen year old was hacking. He rushed to his side and rubbed his back in small circles until the coughing diminished.

That attack left him breathless and panting heavily. The muscles in his sides had begun to throb painfully, and as much as he didn't want to do it in front of the Captain and CMO, he gritted his teeth and hugged his torso to try and make the pain go away.

"Stomach or side pain?" McCoy asked suddenly.

As the pain lessoned, so did the grip around his mid-section.

"…side painz, Sir." He breathed out slowly.

McCoy picked up the tricorder again and looked at the readings one last time.

"Just as I thought…" He looked at Chekov. "Hesperan Thumping Cough."

His brows knitted together in confusion. "What iz zhat?"

"Ah, basically like the flu, but clearly with a more prominent cough. The pain is just from your muscles being contracted in an unnatural way so often. Don't worry, that's a very common complaint. It will pass."

Chekov was relieved to know that at least the pain was normal for Hesperan Thumping Cough; he had been starting to wonder if there was something _really_ wrong with him. The flu, or at least something similar to it, wasn't so bad; that meant that Dr. McCoy could give him a hypo of some sort and make it all go away.

He hoped.

"Yeah, don't worry, kid." Jim said ruffling his curly hair. "I've had it about a million times before, it won't last that long."

"Veally?" he asked hopefully.

Yeah, about uh…five days or so." McCoy said scrolling through his PADD.

Five days may not seem that long, but five days of feeling the way he did right know sure did.

Both Chekov and Jim looked up at the doctor who grunted slightly in frustration at the screen of his PADD.

"Well, young prodigy, the good news is I have a hypo for HTC…but the bad news is your medical records show that you're allergic to lysine based supplements; which is the main amino acid in the treatment."

"Hey! Just like me!" Jim said trying to lighten the mood and cheer the boy up.

But it wasn't working; poor Chekov just sighed and looked down at his dangling feet.

Bones glared at Jim, "You're not helping."

Chekov coughed lightly into his fist, mostly just to clear his throat. It was just his luck that he had as bad of an immune system as the Captain. Okay, maybe not _as_ bad, but being allergic to the one thing that could give him some relief was sure frustrating and didn't help his headache much.

He felt a hand that was a bit too big to be Jim's come to rest on his shoulder; he looked up into the face of the doctor.

"I can give you a pain reliever and a mild fever reducer, but other than that, it would be best to let this run its course."

He smirked slightly, not so much at the doctor's offer, but at the fact that despite his bad mood and shortness of patience, McCoy was a very kind man who really did not like seeing people suffer if he could help it. He was truly a very good doctor and did care about other's welfare, even Jim's; he just had a funny way of showing it.

"Aye, Sir. I agree."

"Good. Hang tight a sec." McCoy said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze before heading off to prepare the hypos.

* * *

"Alright, Chekov ready?"

He closed his eyes to acknowledge that he was.

"Okay, one…two…three." He winced slightly at the impact of the hypo being jabbed into his neck and the contents spilling into his blood stream. But it could have been worse.

Chekov hated hypos, he had yelped in surprise and pain from them before, the amount of pressure that those things held behind them was incredible and it never failed to startle him. By the doctor counting, it made the shot easier to deal with because he knew when it was coming and could prepare for it. That was something he really appreciated, and it was the one thing that actually made he happy about being the youngest.

"Hey!"

Both McCoy and Chekov looked towards Jim who had his arms crossed.

"What!?"

"You never count for me."

Chekov smiled at the way the Captain pulled a face that looked like that of a pouting three year old. He knew that Jim was trying to make him feel better by making him laugh; it just so happened that he might end up annoying McCoy in the process.

The doctor rolled his eyes. "That's because he's actually a good patient who listens to his doctor. Don't be an infant."

McCoy turned his back to grab the last hypospray. Jim smiled at Chekov before taking the opportunity to stick his tongue out at the back of McCoy's head. Chekov actually chuckled at what he was seeing; a Starfleet Captain sticking his tongue out at his Chief Medical Officer? Only James T. Kirk would dare.

"Jim, if you don't put that thing back in your mouth right now, I'll inject you with numb tongue again!"

Jim's eyes grew wide and his tongue shot back into his mouth. How did he see him with his back turned?

"You wouldn't." Jim dared.

McCoy turned suddenly, eyes narrowed in Jim direction.

"Wanna bet?"

Jim raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't mess with me, Jim." He warned before turning his attention back to his young patient.

"Alright, Ensign. One more time, ready and one…two…three. Good."

Chekov sighed and absently rubbed the area on his neck where the injections had been made. He was glad that was over with. One hypo was bad enough, but two was definitely his limit.

McCoy was just about finished up and was about to release the young Ensign back to his quarters to rest when the whoosh of the Sickbay doors caused all three of their heads to turn, and Commander Spock stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back.

Chekov's heart began to pound in his chest and he felt his face grow a shade paler, he looked down at his feet again as quickly as he could, hoping that the Commander did not notice.

Ever since that awful day, he couldn't even look at Spock without thinking about what he had done to him. Sure, he was respectful and would look at him if he was being spoken to; but how do you look a man, or Vulcan, in the eye whose mother you could have saved, but failed to? How do you apologize for something like that? You can't, you just can't. No matter what he did, she was not coming back. Spock would never forgive him; he didn't deserve to be forgiven, he couldn't even forgive himself.

"Hey, Spock, were you lookin for me?"

The Commander approached the Captain. "Indeed I was, Captain; and it appears that I would be correct in saying that you have failed to remember our scheduled viral meeting with Captain Pike, which is to take place in three point four minutes."

A look of realization struck Jim like a lightning bolt.

"Oh! The meeting! You're right Spock I did forget, I'm sorry I was jus-AHH! BONES!"

Jim's hand flew to the side of his neck where McCoy had just hypo-sprayed him.

"It was time for your monthly vitamin booster." He said casually.

"Well, ya didn't have to do it when I wasn't looking."

The doctor picked up his PADD and typed a few things into it. "Well, it's not my fault your immune system's shot; besides I'd rather get it done now then have to chase you around this tin can later."

Chekov listened to them banter back and forth, any outsider would think that they hated each other, but that couldn't be further from the truth, they were like family really.

"You were saying, Captain?" Spock interrupted before Jim could say anything else.

"Wha…oh yeah, I was just escorting Chekov to sickbay, I must have lost track of time."

"Well, we're just about done here, so Jim, you and the hobgoblin can go to your meeting; and as for you Mister Chekov, you can head straight to bed and I'm taking you off duty for the next week."

His head shot up at that remark. Had he really heard the doctor right?

"A veek!? But Doctor-" A cough caught him by surprise and he quickly covered his mouth with a fist; fortunately the hypo had worked rather quickly and his sides did not throb as much.

"No buts, kid. You may feel a bit better now, but those hypos will wear off in a few hours, they're not miracle workers. Besides you've never had HTC, so it might take longer for your body to fight it off. You are not to set foot on the Bridge until I say so."

Chekov was not trying to disobey the doctor's orders, but a whole week, that was just too long. He had a job to do and he was being depended on to do it.

He looked over to his Captain, hoping that he would let him return to the Bridge.

"Sorry, Pavel. But I agree with Bones. You need your rest, don't worry the Bridge will still be there, and you'll be better and back on it in no time." Jim said with a kind smile.

He was about to look away when he heard the even toned voice of the Commander. "If you have taken ill, Ensign Chekov, it would be in your best interest to remain in your quarters until your health has been restored."

Chekov had no idea what to say, it was really not that he was afraid of Spock, he was just ashamed to be in his presence. He felt bad for every day that Spock was living without his mother. How could Spock even stand talking to him?

"A-Aye, Sir." His voice shook every time he had even the slightest conversation with Spock; he really hoped that the Commander did not recognize this reoccurrence.

"Good, I'll stop by later to check on you." Jim said ruffling his hair one last time before heading towards the door followed by Spock. Jim's hand rubbed the spot on his neck again; he must have remembered that awful surprise he had received.

McCoy and Chekov listened to their conversation on the way out.

"I still can't believe he did that to me, did you see what he did to me Spock?"

"Of course I did, Captain. I was in the facility at the moment that it occurred."

"Yeah, but can you believe it? Hypo-spraying someone when they're not looking. That's just mean."

"Actually, Captain I found Doctor McCoy's method of administrating your medication highly logical, given the fact that you have a tendency to as you once said 'make a break for it.'"

"Wait! Whose side are you on!?"

The door slide shut at that moment and the rest of the conversation was lost beyond the doors.

McCoy sighed heavily before mumbling towards the closed doors.

"Idiots."

He turned to face Chekov who was rubbing his eyes tiredly. This kid had been through so much lately, McCoy would never say it to him, but Pavel Chekov was too young; not too young to be a member of Starfleet or part of the Bridge Crew on the _Enterprise_, but too young to be dealing with the stresses that come with it, clearly these past events had taken a toll on him. But he knew the young man would never admit it.

"Pavel, have you been sleeping okay?"

He ceased rubbing his eyes and looked up at the doctor.

"Ah, pretty okay, doctor. But I vake up in ze middle of ze night a lot."

"I see. Well, natural sleep is better than hypo-induced sleep, but I'm going to give you this…" He handed a hypo to Chekov, who took it in confusion. "I'd rather you try to get some sleep on your own, but if you really and I mean _really_ have to, I want you to use it. It will help you relax so you can sleep more soundly. But remember only if…"

"I veally need it." He supplied.

"That's right. Now go get outta here; get into bed, drink lots of water and get some sleep. I'll be by later and we'll see how your fever is and if you need another round of hypos."

Chekov smiled one last time at the doctor for all he had done for him.

"Sank you, Sir."

* * *

**So what do you think? Obviously, this is a story about Chekov and Spock, but I wanted to play around with the friendship between Jim and Bones a little. The next and final chapter will have way more Spock and Chekov.**

**And yes, I slowly slipped away from Chekov's thoughts towards the end on purpose because most of the thoughts in the next chapter will be Spock's; I thought it would make a good transfer. In case you were wondering. **

**Thanks for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry it took so long; there is no excuse, so therefore, I will not give one.**

**But I would like to say thank you so much to everyone who commented on my story and or added it to their favorites or alerts list. Also, a big thanks to everyone for just viewing it in the first place, it really means a lot.**

**Please keep the reviews coming and enjoy the story!**

* * *

He saw her; she was right there, right there in front of him, right within his arms reach; and yet, he could not grasp her. She turned to face him, her eyes wide with the shock of everything that was going on around them. Upon seeing him, her eyes softened and she smiled which brightened her whole face. She was beautiful. Her smile, her face, everything about her was beautiful; there was no one else in the world like her, and even with the loud crashing of rocks and monstrous cracks that threatened to pull apart the planet all around, her gentle features just seemed to make everything clam and okay.

But then her smile vanished and her eyes grew wide once again. He looked down only to see the cracks that were forming and expanding quickly under her feet. He tried to call her, but nothing came out of his mouth, no voice, not a single sound to be heard. He saw her mouthing his name, she had no voice either, the only sound that could be heard was the roaring of the ground being ripped apart as if it were nothing but paper. Then everything began to slow down and the deafening noise decreased dramatically, only to be replaced by the pounding sound of his own frantic heartbeat.

The ledge finally gave way, and she was falling; falling in such a slow motion that he saw every ounce of complete and utter fear that was painted on her face. It didn't look right, it wasn't normal for her face to look like that; she should never have to experience anything that would allow this emotion to be seen on her face. Yet it was happening, and he could not stop it. He reached his arm out for one last chance to save her, but he couldn't make it, his feet were stuck; they refused to propel him forward to be able to reach her tender hand. He felt his own eyes double in size as she slowly slipped further and further away from his outstretched hand. His heart seemed to be falling right along with her.

Suddenly everything sped up again and the noise returned full blast, and before he knew it, she was gone. Gone forever, and it was all his fault; why had he not been able to save her?

He suddenly turned around at the sound of his name being called, and just as he did, he heard that awful cracking again followed by the remaining Vulcans plummeting right before his eyes. He stared in shock of everything that he had just witnessed. He felt his face grow hot while tears of anger and sorrow pooled in his eyes. He could not scream, or shout, or even sob as his voice was still nowhere to be had. He felt every negative emotion building up inside of him, everything from anger to sadness to fear to rage at everything that he had just lost. He crashed to his knees and with every ounce of power and strength he held, smashed his fists onto the hard ground causing a loud bang to echo all around. He looked down at his balled fists only to see cracks begining to spread around them, they encircled too fast for him to move away and suddenly his stomach lurched as the sensation of falling dragged him down...

Spock's eyes shot open and darted around to gather his surroundings.

His breath raced in and out through way of his mouth as he quickly realized that he was not on Vulcan, but in his dark quarters aboard the _Enterprise_.

He sat up to even out his breathing.

It was all a dream, he concluded. A terrible, awful, haunting dream, an absolute nightmare; and the worst part of it was, it really happened. Except for the last part, clearly he was still there and what was left of the Vulcan High Council was safe and he still had his father, of which he was grateful for. But the rest of it had been true; the place of his birth was now gone without a trace. All that remained was a big, empty hole in the dark sky where it once occupied. All of those innocent lives, just gone including his mother. How could he have let this happen? She had been right there in front of him, how could he have missed her?

Spock felt his face grow hot again just thinking about it. This nightmare had been replaying over and over again in his sleep for two weeks ever since it happened. Plaguing the rest that he so desperately needed, he was _way_ under the limited amount of sleep that any human or Vulcan required. Luckily, the training that he received as a child to conceal his emotions also worked to mask the exhaustion, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could function like this.

Just a few days ago, (three point two days to be exact.) he had been categorizing the new species of plants that they had just collected from a newly discovered lush and docile planet when his vision began to blur; he remembered his eyelids becoming unusually heavy and his muscles relaxing, and before he knew it, his head was snapping back up just as his world had become dark; the light of the science lab filling his sight once again. He had been thankful that he was alone when that brief display had occurred, but as quick as it had been, it was most unbecoming and unacceptable of any Vulcan or Starfleet Officer to fall asleep on duty or otherwise.

It had been that occurrence, plus the fact that even his meditation was failing him; that had him consulting with Dr. McCoy on a bio-bed in Sickbay with a tricorder being waved in front of his face.

"_Alright, Spock, the bottom line is that you're exhausted. Your whole Vulcan meditation thing, or whatever you call it, is probably being affected by your over active mind, you're having trouble focusing. Which is to be expected what with the stress that you have gone through…_"

"_How do you suggest that I make my mind less 'active,' Doctor?_"

"_Well, some people read before going to bed; others sometimes go for a walk, why don't you try walking around the ship for an hour or two before bed, let your mind wander a bit. It might clear your head and make you tried in the process._"

So over the past few days, he had taken the doctor's advice and wondered around the ship's corridors for at least an hour before retiring to his quarters. However, the nightmares still haunted his subconscious whenever he did manage to sleep; so he had taken up the habit of going for a stroll after such an episode too, to calm his mind, emotions and racing heart before returning to meditate and then attempting to find sleep once again.

This had now turned into one of those times.

He sighed heavily, he only ever sighed when no one was around to see him. The loss of his mother had affected him deeply, which was understandable, he loved her. It had just been such a shock, so unexpected, something that he never would have imagined happening, that he did not know how to deal with it. All these feelings, all these emotions where difficult for him to process; and being half human made it all the more difficult.

A quick glance at his PADD showed that it was about two twenty-five in the morning earth time.

He ran his hands across his face for a moment, (Yet again, only something he would do when no one was looking.) and rose from his bed. He turned again to re-make the bed since he would never leave his room in such a state, before heading to the closet to change from his Starfleet issued pajamas to his usual Commander's uniform.

So, with his boots tugged on and his blue shirt crisp and straight; he clasped his hands behind his back and strolled through the sliding doors to begin his slow trek around the quiet starship.

* * *

Other than a few stray Ensigns and red shirts making their way to their posts, the sleek white corridors were mostly empty. Most of the crew were either waiting in sleep for their shifts, or already at their stations.

It was fascinating that when the ship was not in chaos how tranquil it could be. The glossy shine seemed to have a rather calming effect, much the same as the sunlight's glow reflected upon a calm body of water when people took the time to notice it.

Spock had always been fond of the water ever since he saw it as a young child. He and his father would often accompany his mother on trips to earth for what she called, 'family reunions.' These reunions had always been arranged in New Orleans where most of Amanda's family took up residence. During those trips, he and his mother would often sit on the back porch of her brother's house just staring off at the lake that was located there.

He knew his mother had always enjoyed the serene sight of the lake; clearly it had made her happy to gaze upon it. But he was never sure what it was that he saw in it. Why did his young Vulcan eyes find it so appealing?

For years these reunions continued, and as Spock grew, he found himself looking forward to seeing the lake. Because of Vulcan once being a desert like planet, there were not many lakes, or any other bodies of water to see. He had once heard his mother say that it had become a real 'treat' to see it; and in a way, he agreed.

It wasn't until just recently that he realized what it was that caused the lake to have a meaning to him. After the _Enterprise _had returned to earth after the Nero attack a funeral service had been held to honor their crew members and the citizens of Vulcan who had lost their lives. After the service, Spock had stood on a hill overlooking the San Francisco Bay, still in shock over his mother's sudden death. The next day, he and Sarek traveled to New Orleans to attend a final service held for Amanda by her family. At the end to close the service, they sprinkled purple lilac flowers in the very lake that he and his mother had sat at, and that was when he realized…it wasn't the lake that had been special to him; it had been the time spent that he just sat with his mother and looked out at it.

That had been what he had looked forward to, and that had been what he enjoyed the most.

With her gone, there would be no more staring out at the lake together, but he would always have the memories of times past doing so. He even had an old fashion photograph in a frame of his mother, his father and himself standing in front of the lake taken by her brother. It had been snapped during their last family reunion before Spock had been accepted into Starfleet; his mother had secretly hidden it in his tote bag the day he left for the Academy.

It now sat on the shelf across from his bed and every now and again, the corners of his mouth would turn up whenever he glanced at it, and for the past two weeks it had been happening a lot more.

* * *

An hour and a half pasted and Spock reasoned that it was time to return to his room. As he began to pass the other quarters, his highly sensitive ears picked up a rather strange noise. It was a very minute sound, and if not for his incredible sense of hearing, it would not have been audible at all.

It was as if someone was mumbling, but in a very slurred, almost drowsy tone; and every now and again a groan of what sounded like pain would arise.

He followed the sound a couple of doors down until he realized that it was coming from the quarters of Pavel A. Chekov.

He raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he came to a stop in front of Chekov's door. Suddenly, he remembered that earlier that day the Captain had escorted the young man down to the Med bay. At the time, Spock thought that he had looked rather unwell, and yet he had wished to remain on the Bridge until Jim, the doctor and himself had advised against it.

He hoped that these sounds were not signs of his illness becoming worse.

He reached up to the computer pad on the wall and pressed a finger to the communications key.

"Ensign Chekov, this is Commander Spock, are you currently well?"

He didn't receive an answer.

"Ensign Chekov, please respond."

Still nothing.

Deciding that this was a more serious situation than before; Spock quickly typed in the medical code that would allow the door to open, (The Captain had decided that everyone on the Bridge crew should know the medical code, for situations such as this.) and rushed in. What he saw caused both of his eyebrows to disappear into his dark bangs; which was as surprised as a Vulcan could be.

Chekov was flat on his back in bed, his head thrashing from side to side. His arms were at his sides atop the covers, fingers in a white knuckle grip around the fabric.

Spock sprinted to his bedside; upon a closer view the First Officer could now see that sweat poured from the boy's face, causing his tousled hair to stick to his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut in a face that held a tight grimace. It became very clear to Spock that Chekov was indeed asleep. It was just difficult to determine if his expression was caused by physical pain or whatever his subconscious was forcing him to see.

"No…n-no, I can do…I c-can do zhat…I can…"

Chekov's voice came out weak and raspy. It quivered a bit as his body shivered, and once again Spock found himself wondering if it was due to the illness giving him chills; or was it caused by what Spock was unable to see?

"…no…no…pleaze, no."

He began breathing harder at this point. Spock contemplated performing a mind meld on young Chekov; at least it would help him to see what was causing him so much distress. But he dismissed the idea; in the condition Chekov was in a mind meld would possibly cause him more discomfort and put a strain on his already weakened body.

Instead, Spock decided that the best course of action would be to wake him. He placed his hands gently, but firmly on the young man's shoulders feeling the heat radiating off his skin even through the fabric of his night shirt, and shook him lightly.

"Ensign? Ensign Chekov?"

"Too many…zhere are…t-too many rocks…too many. I…I can't…"

Spock hadn't the slightest idea what he was mumbling about, but clearly it was bothering him. He shook a little harder.

"Mister Chekov, please, if you awaken you will see that the fabrications of your subconscious are not that of reality."

His breathing became rapid again, and the wince deepened on his face. He thrashed his head with a bit more force than before.

"NO!" He suddenly shouted. "I'M LOOZING HER! I'M LOOZING HER! NO! NO!"

At this point, his arms began flailing; he was blindly trying to fight off Spock's grip on him, but Spock held on.

"Ensign, please!" He could hear a hint of desperation in his own voice now. He just had to wake up. "You are unwell and not in control of your actions."

"NO! I LOST HER! LOST HER! I LOST HER-"

"ENSIGN!"

Suddenly his eyes shot open and he bolted up right nearly bumping heads with Spock, his breaths coming out in frantic pants. Chekov's wide, fever rimmed eyes locked onto the Commander, who had gently released his grip from his shoulders. It was clear that he was surprised and confused by Spock's presence in front of him, for he did not or maybe could not say a word. But there appeared to be something else; the dream for sure must have given him quite a scare, but he did not seem to be very relieved in now realizing that it was not real.

His face suddenly went a shade paler, and his eyes grew even wider. Spock saw this and studied him for a moment.

"Ensign?"

But that was all he had time to ask; Chekov's right hand clasped over his mouth and he leapt from the bed, flying past Spock with energy neither of them expected him to have in this state, straight to the small bathroom.

Spock was about to ask if he was alright, but the unmistakable sounds of vomiting answered him before he could even ask.

* * *

**Okay, so I decided to make this story into three chapters instead of two. One reason being because I didn't want one HUGE overwhelming chapter; and reason two being I kept all of you good people waiting long enough. **

**Please let me know what you think, I would really like to know. Plus reviews make for faster updates. :) **

**The final chapter will be up soon, thanks so much. **


	3. Chapter 3

**So, here we are! The final chapter! Thank you to all who have read this.**

**Please leave a review of what you thought, I love hearing what you guys think.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Pain shot up Chekov's knees when they met the hard floor of the bathroom. He gripped the sides of the toilet as if hanging on for dear life, as his stomach completely betrayed him. The hot broth and crackers that McCoy had brought him two hours after dismissing him from Sickbay, and the orange juice and chunks of watermelon (watermelon was one of the only things he would eat _willingly_ while he had a sore throat.) that the Captain had brought him two hours after that, were now reappearing in the porcelain fixture. Well, at least the parts that hadn't completely digested yet were.

And it was not pleasant.

After a minute, which felt more like an eternity, the retching ceased and his stomach finally settled. He reached a shaky hand out and grabbed some toilet paper to blow his nose and then again to wipe his mouth, and discarded them too into the toilet before flushing everything away.

Panting heavily, he sat down and leaned back against the wall; pulling his knees up to his chest and placing his forehead upon his crossed arms.

Again, it had happened again, another nightmare.

He had once again relived the moments leading up to losing Amanda. Everything in the dream happened as it had in reality; it was as if he had been placed in the scenario again with the chance to do better; to actually save her. But every time it ended the same, every time he still managed to lose her. He had experienced this nightmare before many times, but never realized that it was one until he woke up only to find that he had failed. This nightmare was by far the worse of them all, and it didn't have anything to do with being unwell, this one was the worse _all_ the time; this was really the one that turned his stomach, because even if he were to have it and he did manage to save her in the end and have everything turn out okay, he would wake and know that it was a lie. It didn't matter how many chances he got in his dreams, the truth was that he had only _one_ chance. One, single chance to save a life, a wife's life, a mother's life, Amanda Grayson's life, and he had failed. This is why it has, and probably always will be, the worse nightmare he had ever, and will ever have.

The panting soon slowed to clam, even breaths as the feeling of being totally awake washed over him. This had been the first time that he had actually been physically sick after this particular nightmare, which surprised him. The fever might have had a helping hand with that, in fact, he was sure that his fever went up because before he had rushed to the bathroom, he thought he had seen Spock by his bed, eyebrows raised in what he could only describe as surprise.

'_I must be delirious_.' He thought.

There is no way that Spock, the half-human half-Vulcan, First Commanding Officer of the _Enterprise_ would be in his quarters at…well, whatever time it was. No, that must have been some weird part of the dream, or some hallucination that he had seen due to his fever, and even if it wasn't, what reason would Spock have for being there? Was it out of concern? Worry? Did he care if he was sick? Was it all three?

Absolutely not.

There was no way that Spock could or would show concern or worry towards him. That was yet another thing that Chekov felt that he did not deserve. Why should he? For one reason, it was his fault that Spock no longer had a mother. For another, he was part Vulcan and emotions of any kind were seen as a disadvantage and distraction; and for yet another reason, it was just Hesperan Thumping Cough and he wasn't going to die from it; even if _he_ himself felt like he would.

No. None of that had nor was happening, he concluded. Spock was not in his quarters; Spock was not concerned nor did he care about Chekov; and finally, there was no way that he had actually thrown up in front of the Commanding Officer. No, there was no way in the wide regions of space that any of those things had happened.

"Mister Chekov, are you alright?"

His head shot up at the sound of the monotone voice that could only belong to one person.

He stared, his eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. It had been real, Spock had been, and still was in his room. How? And why? The latter being the more dominate question that burned in his mind.

Spock's brows furrowed slightly in a questioning motion, Chekov quickly realized that he had not yet answered the Commander's query. He attempted to make his mouth form words, but the surprise of Spock's presence plus his sore throat, which now burned after his sudden and unexpected trip to the bathroom, made it very difficult and painful. All he managed was a weak, croaky whisper that didn't really sound like anything, even in his own ears; the only audible thing that escaped his lips was deep, hacking coughs which he was rewarded with for his efforts.

"Do not attempt to speak if you are unable to, Ensign."

Chekov took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down; then he swallowed slowly, wincing at the rawness of his throat and the awful taste in his mouth. He held back a gag as best he could at the reminder that he had just tossed his cookies in front of the Vulcan, he did not want to cause any further embarrassment to himself.

At the thought of embarrassment, Chekov realized that this was probably a good time to get up off of the bathroom floor. Which he quickly realized, was easier said than done. He felt weak, sore from the heaving that wracked his thin frame. He reached up for the edge of the sink to pull the rest of his body up, but his legs felt like jelly and he had a hard time getting them to obey his command to support his weight. Suddenly, a firm, but gentle hand grabbed the under part of his right bicep; he jumped slightly at the unexpected touch, but Spock did not falter in his grasp upon the young man's thin arm. He did not release his grip until Chekov had both hands clutched onto the sink's edge and he ceased swaying on his feet.

Chekov closed his eyes and bowed his head down towards the sink, breathing heavily through his slightly opened mouth. Even with Spock's assistance, getting up from the floor took a lot out of him, and he hated it. He hated every moment of being sick, he constantly felt as if he had no energy what so ever, the coughing and choking and sneezing annoyed him to no end, and the fever irritated him with its grasp of cold sweats and other conflicting, deceiving temperature changes; and what made it a million times worse was now someone was here to see it all, and that someone _had_ to be Commander Spock. But even though he didn't want _anyone_ seeing him in this state, he was glad that someone, even if it was Spock, was there. Who knows how long he would have been trapped on the floor of the bathroom? Also, even if he had gotten up by himself, who's to say he wouldn't of slipped and hit his head on something? He also began questioning when, why and how he started thinking like an old man, but quickly let that one go. The bottom line was that he was truly grateful that someone had been there to help him, even if he still had a hard time looking at that someone after the trauma he had caused him.

After a few seconds, his breathing returned to normal. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the Vulcan, who now held out a small cup of water; Chekov looked at it in confusion. He never even heard him leave the room, much less place a request into the small food replicator.

"It would be a wise course of action, Mister Chekov, for you to cleanse your mouth of the taste, and or remaining particles of the regurgitated contents of your stomach."

For the second time in the period of a few minutes, Chekov attempted to hold back a gag. He couldn't help but think that if the Captain were here right now, he would say something like,

"_Leave it to Spock to make something, such as vomiting sound even more gross than it already is._"

But still, he gratefully took the cup and swished the water in his mouth for a few seconds before spitting it out into the sink. He turned to look at Spock once again and muttered a quiet, "S-sank you, Sir."

"You are welcome." He returned.

Then, his hand disappeared into his pocket and returned again with his communicator.

"I need to inform Doctor McCoy-"

"NO!"

Both Spock's and Chekov's eyes widened in surprise at the boy's sudden reaction. Spock was more surprised at the sound and volume of his voice, just a second ago he could barely whisper; where had it come from? And from the look that was displaced on the other man's face, he was wondering that too. However, Chekov was more concerned at what he had just done. Not only had he interrupted the First Commanding Officer, he _yelled_ at the First Commanding Officer. He felt all of the color drain from his face, and for a split second, he actually thought he would pass out.

"C-Commander Sp-Spock, I-I-I'm so, so zorry! Pl-Pleaze forgive m-m-me. I…I did not m-mean to-"

His stuttering sentence was cut short by an unexpected coughing fit, which had his fist flying up to cover his mouth. The pain relieving hypo that McCoy had given him was beginning to wear off, and the pains in his rib cage were developing yet again. At the moment, it was just a dull ache, but he knew with time it would progress, and that was something he was not looking forward to.

"Calm yourself, Ensign Chekov." Spock started as Chekov's coughing subsided. "There is no reason for forgiveness in this matter, as you have not done wrong. You are under the influence of an illness, which you do not appear to be improving in. This is why I must contact Doctor McCoy and report to him the current state of your condition."

Chekov nervously wiped the sweat that ran down his temple. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a big deal; for one thing, he hated being fussed over like a child, sure he may be young, but a child he was not; and for another, he didn't want to be selfish. Why should he dump his weakness, his fear, his pain on everyone when he was not the one to suffer the most? If the doctor found out about the reason for his lack of sleep, he would surly bring it up and all the attention would be focused on him, when it shouldn't be. No, he did not want, nor was he worthy of, the sympathy or the concern; if anyone was, it was Spock. His mother had died right in front of his eyes; it was an experience that Chekov would never, _ever_ wish upon anyone, not even the most dangerous and cruelest of people in the entire universe. If anyone deserved concern and sympathy it was the Commander, and even though he was positive that Spock would not want either of the displays from anyone, he surly was not going to be the one that even pretended like he was the one that was harboring the most pain.

"P-Pleaze Meester Spock, d-do not bozher ze Doctor b-because of me. I…I em fine, veally I em."

Spock tilted his head slightly in what could be taken as confusion.

"I do not understand, Ensign. How would any bother come to the Doctor, if it is his job to see to the medical needs of the crew? And why is it that you do not wish to seek medical attention?"

"I…I just…" He had no idea what he wanted to say; all he knew was that he didn't want what was happening right now. "…just…pleaze, M-Meester Spock, pl-pleaze. Pleaze don't c-call Doctor M-McCoy…pleaze, Sir…pleaze…"

Spock took a moment to take in the young man's features. His skin had become quite pale since he had first entered his quarters, he had no doubt that Chekov was using up energy that he clearly no longer had. It also became clear that whatever his fevered mind had conjured up in his sleep, really had affected him even more than he had previously thought. He looked tired, frightened and even a little sad; his eyes were glossy and dark shadows colored the skin beneath them, but there was a very pleading look to them. For once, the Vulcan was very unsure of what to do; the logical thing to do would be to bring Chekov's condition to the attention of the doctor, but he did not wish to put more stress on him. The very mention of calling the doctor seemed to upset him greatly for reasons unknown to Spock, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make the teenager more anxious in his fragile state than he already was.

"For now, I will comply with your request to not contact Doctor McCoy. However, we will speak of this topic again, should your health decrease while I am present."

He placed his communicator back into his pocket, and Chekov released a breath that he had not realized that he had been holding. "Sank you, Sir."

* * *

After taking a few minutes to rinse his mouth a bit more and wash his hands, Chekov began to slowly make his way to exit the bathroom and crawl back into bed, when Spock stopped him.

"Ensign, you may wish to change out of your current night attire, as your perspiration appears to have stained it."

Chekov looked down at his red long-sleeved pajama shirt and his red and blue checked pants. The shirt had several dark red patches where the sweat had seeped through the fabric making it stick to him in a very uncomfortable way, it also made him feel cold with chills again. The longer he looked at it the more he realized that if he hadn't of known any better he would have thought it was blood, and the thought of that unnerved him.

"A-A-Aye Sir, zhat iz-" He began coughing again, "…g-good idea." He finally got out as he was left trying to catch his breath.

"To allow you to, for use of a Terran phrase, 'catch your breath' I will retrieve a change of clothing for you, Ensign. Where are they located at?"

"…no…pleaze…Meester Spock, I em fine…I can do it…I do not vant to be…to be…a burden."

"I insist, Mister Chekov. It is of no inconvenience towards me, if I am the individual who is offering the gesture. Now, where are your night clothes?"

Chekov was confused, was that Spock's way of saying that he _wanted_ to help? To assist him in his time of need? Why? After what he had done, that terrible mistake that no one could fix, and he could not take back no matter how much he wanted to. No, it wasn't right; Chekov did not think that he deserved Spock's kindness and help, no, he did not think, he _knew_ that he did not deserve it. Why was he doing this? Why was he giving something that Chekov knew he was not meant, or worthy of, to receive? He felt his stomach twist, not in sickness, but in shame and sadness. He had failed, he had lost a life, and he got kindness in return, kindness from the son of the woman who he could not pull out of danger. No, it wasn't right, and he wished that Spock would stop giving him the thing that he deserved the least.

"Ensign?"

Spock's voice broke into his thoughts. He looked up at the taller Officer who held his hands behind his back, and appeared to be waiting patiently for an answer.

"…uh, in ze dresser…over zhere." He pointed. "On ze left…zecond drawer down."

Spock followed Chekov's directions and slid the correct drawer open to reveal several sets of sleep wear, which mostly consisted of solid-colored long-sleeved shirts and long pants which held the pattern that Spock remembered was referred to as 'plaid.' He selected the light gray shirt that sat on top of its pile, and the pair of dark cobalt blue and white patterned pants that was on top of the other; and briskly made his way back to hand them to Chekov, who accepted them with a quiet thanks.

* * *

Spock was waiting outside the bathroom with another cup of room temperature water, when its door re-opened and Chekov slowly appeared in his fresh change of clothes, eyes fixated on his bare feet. Spock made to hand him the new cup of water to drink, but before he could, Chekov walked right past him straight to his bed, pulled the covers up so far that only the very top of his head was visible and curled up in a ball on his left side facing towards the wall. This display caused one of Spock's brows to rise; the young Ensign had not even looked up once to acknowledge that he was there, and when he walked by, he appeared to be sniffling. In fact, the sound could still be heard from under the pile of blankets.

He walked closer to the bed and set the cup down upon the nightstand. The sniffling noise had become a bit louder and more notable now, and Spock realized that these were the sounds that were associated with the action of crying. It was unclear as to why Chekov would suddenly feel the need to cry, and Spock suddenly wondered if the illness was causing him discomfort.

He gently sat down on the bed to see if he could get Chekov to come out so he could get a better look at him.

"Are you in pain, Ensign?"

The only answer he received was the sheets being pulled a little bit tighter, accompanied by a few more sniffles.

"Ensign?"

Still nothing.

"Mister Chekov?"

Again nothing. Spock was beginning to feel that same bit of desperation and concern that he had felt when trying to wake Chekov from his fitful sleep. Why did he not answer? Even though Spock had only just met Chekov from their first mission together under Captain Pike, he knew it was very unlike him to act this way. Was this illness really affecting him that much, or was there something else? Maybe something having to do with the dream he had had? Whatever it was, Spock really wished that a mind meld could be done, if Chekov did not want to say what bothered him so, he could show Spock and he could help him that way; but hurting him and making the teenager more ill was a risk that Spock was not willing to take. If he wanted his help, Chekov was going to have to actually say what was wrong.

The form under the covers sniffled a bit harder, followed by a quick intake of breath. Spock looked over and saw that Chekov's sheet covered shoulders were shaking. With not knowing what else to do, he reached over and gently placed his hand on the shivering shoulder.

"Pavel?"

He had never used the Ensign's first name when referring to him before, unless it was required. He thrived in formality, and called every crew member by their rank title or surname. The Captain had been trying to break him of this habit, and insisted that he call him Jim when off duty or in casual conversation. It was a difficult habit to break, but Jim was always positive that one day progress would be made; and Spock guessed that maybe this was a little bit of progress.

The use of his first name must have gotten his attention, for suddenly, without warning; Chekov shot up from under the blankets, hurled himself towards the Commander, threw his arms around his torso and began sobbing into his chest. The surprise of the rapid event nearly sent Spock toppling off the bed, but he recovered quick enough to hear the stuffy, stuttering words that tried to make themselves heard between each sob.

"I-I-I'm z-zorry, Me-Meester Spock-k-k! I…I-I'm s-so zorry-ry!"

Spock tilted his head in an attempt to see Chekov's face, but failed, his features were completely buried in his blue uniform shirt, and Spock could tell that the tears were beginning to soak the material.

"If you are attempting to apologize for being ill, I can assure you that it is-"

"No, n-not zhat!" He shook his head without looking up. There seemed to be a tone of desperation growing in his voice, as the weeping continued to intensify.

"…I…I…I'm z-zorry fo-for vhat-t I did…f-for vhat I did…" He slowly raised his head to meet the Vulcan's eyes, and Spock's mouth fell opened in the slightest as he took in the look of Chekov's appearance. He was completely red in the face, clearly not just from the fever now; tears and sweat mixed together to completely drench him, causing him to shiver. But the thing that caught Spock's attention the most were his eyes; they were wide and held so many emotions at one time and Spock could see each one, sadness, shame, fear, worry, exhaustion, pain, some anger and even some embarrassment. Yes, Spock could see them all, for he had felt each one before; for as much as he was Vulcan, he was also that much human.

Chekov swallowed and opened his quivering mouth as more tears began to flow.

"…I-I'm z-z-zorry zhat I-I l-lost…h-her…I'm z-zorry…zhat I l-lost your m-mozher-" His head collapsed back onto Spock's chest as he began to sob violently, each one wracking his body in what appeared to be a painful motion.

"It…it was…all-all m-my fault…I…I couldn't…I-I tr-tried, but…but I c-couldn't…"

The Vulcan was in complete shock at what he was hearing; Pavel A. Chekov blamed himself for the loss of his mother? He had not known at all that the young Ensign had felt that way. There was no reason for him to, the only person that Spock had been blaming for his mother's death was himself. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that none of those events would have happened if it wasn't for Nero. His anger and desire for revenge from his own time period drove him to take action and hurt so many that had done nothing wrong. So many innocent lives of men, women and even children were now gone all because of one person's temper and selfishness.

Spock could feel the burn of anger rising up from behind the barrier that held his emotions back from being visible. Nero had taken so much from him and caused so much pain. And for what? Because he could.

Spock was brought back from his thoughts at the sound of Chekov's distress. Not only did he continue to sob heavily, but he now coughed, gasped and hiccupped and each one convulsed his form which appeared to be weakening him further. Looking down at him, his anger extinguished. How could this innocent young man take and hold the blame over his own head all this time?

Without a second thought, Spock did what he knew his mother would have done in a situation like this; he gently lowered his hands onto Chekov's back and just held him. He knew very well what he was doing, and he also knew that hugging was defiantly _not_ a part of the Vulcan culture; however, it _was_ a part of the human culture which he also belonged to and had grown up experiencing from his mother. She often embraced him when she felt necessary; after he was bullied or tormented, whenever he got hurt or even just because she wanted to. At the time, he had always found the action illogical, but growing up and learning to understand the human part of himself, he realized that it had been her way of expressing love, showing that she cared and letting him know that she would always be there for him.

The contact caused Chekov to cry a bit harder than before, but Spock kept his hands right where they were.

"Pavel…" He spoke gently, "Calm yourself and listen to what I have to say."

The sobs lessoned, but did not stop fully. But it was clear that he was listening.

"You are not to be held responsible for the loss of my mother. I have neither placed fault on you in the past nor will I in the future; to do so would be the equivalent of accusing you of creating the black hole that destroyed Vulcan. Do you not agree?"

He felt his heart sink a bit at the memory of it all, but he held a placid mask when Chekov finally let go and looked up at him. Spock retracted his arms as well and peered into his eyes that were big and red and still streaming tears. Chekov reached up the back of his hand and wiped away some of the tears that most likely blurred his vision, as he continued to sniffle and splutter.

"B-B-But, Sir…I-I zhought…I zhought I c-could do it. I vas at ze co-controls…I sh-sh-should have b-been zhere sooner…o-o-or I should ha-have let some-someone elze do it…I…I f-failed…an-an-and it is b-because of me zhat…sh-she…she is gone."

Then it dawned on him, this had been what Chekov had been dreaming about. This is what caused him to be so upset, even to the point of being physically ill. Spock placed a hand on each of the boy's shoulders.

"Pavel, you did everything that you were capable of doing, which at the time, was more than any other individual could. You are intelligent, considering your age, even by the Vulcan standards. If the positions had been reversed, I am not sure that I would have been capable of performing the necessary methods needed to beam up as many beings as you were able to."

Vulcans were not able to lie, everyone knew that. Everything Spock was saying was the truth. He continued as Chekov just stared with his mouth slightly opened in shock.

"The ground beneath her collapsed because of the force pulling it apart, and beaming her up while in motion and amongst the falling debris would not have been possible for anyone at the controls. Therefore, you are not at fault, Pavel. You were able to rescue the remaining member of the Vulcan High Council, my father and myself, and for that I am grateful."

Chekov's bright red face was soaked with tears, but he held a small smile just the same, it was the first _real_ smile that he had shown in two long weeks. The corners of Spock's own mouth turned up into a slight smile as well.

"If my mother were alive today, I am positive that she would be proud of what you did, Pavel. She would be proud of you; as the Captain is…" He squeezed his shoulders lightly. "And as I am."

More tears rushed down Chekov's cheeks and he bit his lip to keep from beginning to sob again. He was speechless, he had had no idea at all that the Commander had been proud of him, and was willing to admit it to him. Chekov still felt terrible about Amanda's untimely death and he knew he always would, but he felt more at peace then he had before. He began to realize that maybe he was really not to blame for all of it; Spock did not forgive him since he never blamed him in the beginning, so Chekov reasoned that in time he would have to forgive himself, and he had a feeling that it would happen sooner rather than later now. However, he still wished that he could have saved her in time, no matter how impossible the chances of it were. He prayed that one day, the process and technology for beaming someone up would be more advanced and more efficient so nothing like this ever happens again.

He brushed his hand over his leaking eyes again, as his mouth finally decided it was able to form words.

"S-Sank you, M-Meester Spock." He stopped to clear his throat. "But, I em n-not a hero. V-Ve are all a crew, a t-t-team."

"You are correct, although I believe that the Captain prefers to use the term, 'family.'"

Chekov smiled even wider, could Spock, the half-human half-Vulcan First Commanding Officer of the U.S.S _Enterprise_ have really just quoted Captain James T. Kirk and referred to the crew as family? Was this his way of saying that he agreed and did see the crew as _his _family? Chekov was pretty positive that it was, but only time would tell.

Suddenly, a massive coughing fit caught him off guard and brought him out of his train of thought, as well as caused Spock's hands to release his shoulders. He coughed rather harshly into the crook of his right arm, while his left cradled his throbbing sides. He was beginning to think that he might have overexerted himself; he felt even worse than he had before, which he had not thought was possible, he was completely drained, the aches returned to every part of his body, and he could feel the chills intensifying. His throat burned as the choking subsided; he blamed some of that on the vomiting.

Spock leaned over to grab the cup that he had sat down previously and handed it to Chekov, who accepted it gratefully and began to sip it slowly.

"It is vital that you remain hydrated in this condition."

Chekov nodded as he continued to down the rest of the water, the motion of swallowing still pained him, but the water was soothing as it washed over his raw throat. When he finished, he handed the cup back to Spock who returned it to the nightstand.

"S-S-Sank…you…S-Sir." He forced out; not only was he trembling for the cold, but his voice was barely above a whisper again. It was not any less painful then before, but at least the words could be understood.

The exhaustion was getting the better of him, as was the general over all feeling that everyone seems to experience when they are unwell. He just felt sick, he could think of no other way to describe it but that, he was just sick.

"It would be wise for you to resume resting, Pavel. To remain awake and active will not assist your body in healing itself of the virus."

He nodded again in agreement and gently lowered his head back down upon the pillows and pulled the blankets up to his neck. Spock had risen to allow the covers to move and stood by the edge of the bed. Chekov assumed that he would leave as there was now no 'logical' reason for him to remain any longer. So, he became quite surprised when he felt the back of Spock's hand against his forehead.

"Your core temperature has risen."

He removed his hand and quickly walked into the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a small bowl of cool water and two washcloths. He set the items down on the nightstand, dragged the nearby desk chair over to the side of Chekov's bed and sat down. Spock then proceeded to place one of the washcloths into the bowl and rang out the excess water before beginning to fold it.

"This is an ancient Terran remedy for cooling down ones skin. My mother used this technique when I had taken ill with an elevated temperature as a child, and I found it to be beneficial."

Chekov smiled weakly, "M-My mozher use…" his eye lids began to flutter shut, he was so tired, but he forced them to remain open. "…use t-to do zhat too."

Spock flashed another small Vulcan smile before placing the folded compress on the young man's forehead. Chekov's eyes snapped shut and he winced at the sudden cold sensation, but he soon relaxed and welcomed the relief that it brought. His eyes did not re-open however, and Spock became a bit concerned.

"Are you well?"

"Yes, Sir…" He responded weakly, eyes still refusing to open. "…just…tired."

"Submit to sleep then, Pavel. I will remain present to monitor your temperature."

"No…Meester Spock…you…do not have to…have to…do…" Chekov's sentence remained unfinished as his breathing evened out; symbolizing that he was now asleep.

Spock kept his word and sat by Chekov's side; but forty-five minutes had past and Chekov's face slowly began to form into a grimace and he began breathing harder. Spock realized that this was the same behavior that he had been displaying before, which meant he was experiencing another nightmare; but Spock was not about to let that happen. He gently switched out the cloths, placing the fresh one against Chekov's forehead along with his own hand to hold it in place; he then tenderly placed his right hand upon Chekov's wrist in hopes that he would relax and realize that he was not alone.

"At ease, Pavel." He whispered. "At ease."

Spock was not sure if Chekov could hear him or not, but within seconds, his features slowly calmed and his breaths returned to a normal rhythm.

* * *

At about six o'clock in the morning earth time. Leonard McCoy began to make his rounds, and he began with checking on the progress of his youngest patient, Mister Pavel A. Chekov. Nothing much had changed when he had checked on him after he had sent him to his quarters, which was a good sign, but he was hoping that during this checkup he would start to see some improvements, even in the slightest.

Arriving at Chekov's quarters, McCoy quickly typed in the medical code, walked through the sliding door and nearly dropped his medical bag at what his eyes gazed upon.

Chekov was fast asleep in his bed, his left arm lying limp across his torso and his right was motionless at his side, head slightly lopsided towards the right where one Commander Spock sat completely dead to the world in sleep, in a very human position. He was slouched against the back of the chair, his right elbow braced against the arm of the seat while his hand cradled his cheek and chin; his left arm was just left dangling uselessly on the other side. The doctor didn't even know that that position was possible for a Vulcan, even a half-Vulcan.

After recovering from the shock, McCoy quietly walked to the side were Spock sat to get a better look at Chekov. As he reached the bedside, he felt his boot step on something soft, he looked down and discovered a damp washcloth folded neatly into a compress. He bent down to pick it up and that is when he saw the bowl of water and the other washcloth hanging off the side. Retrieving the fallen washcloth from the floor and standing straight again, he took a second to look at it, and then he turned his attention to the bowl, then to Chekov, then to Spock and then finally back to the cloth in his hand again. He smiled in spite of himself and placed the cloth on the nightstand, where he found the hypospray that he had given the boy the day before to help him sleep; it was unused. His smile widened at the device as he picked it up and pocketed it.

Pulling a tricorder from his other pocket, he waved it in front of Chekov's face and soon discovered that his fever was actually lower than it had been when Jim brought him to Sickbay. The readings showed that at one point his fever had gone up during the night, but it was made very clear to McCoy who had been there to take care of that. Young Chekov would still be out for the week with that nasty cough, but the doctor predicted that his temperature and sleep pattern would be back to normal long before then.

McCoy ran the tricoder over Spock as well, just to be safe and when his results checked out, the doctor began to take his leave. He decided that the best thing for the both of them was some much needed rest. They had both been through so much, and McCoy only hoped that they would both come to realize that they were not alone.

He stopped and turned around one last time to look upon the two sleeping forms, neither of them had moved an inch.

'_Maybe Jim was right,_' He thought. '_Maybe one day this crew will be a family._'

Once again he smiled to himself, what a family photo _that_ would be.

He then glanced in Chekov's direction and whispered in a soft tone.

"Well done, kid." Then he glanced at Spock, "You too, Pointy."

* * *

**Well, there it is guys! I really hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.**

**Thank you so much to all those who have commented, I am always happy to hear what you think.**

**Please review and let me know what you thought of this final chapter.**

**Thanks a million to everyone! **


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